To speak of this subject to Dr. Khayme would give me no embarrassment; I was sure of his full sympathy; but I was hampered by a doubt as to how much I should tell him of the necessity which prompted the demand for my work. The three generals had spoken of important matters before me, or at least hinted at them, and General Morell had been still more communicative. I made up my mind to say nothing of these matters to the Doctor. When I reached the tent I found my old master yet busy at his writing. As I entered he looked up at me, and immediately rose from his seat. "You have been tried," said he; "lie down and rest." He sat by me and felt my pulse. Then he said, "You will do; it is only a momentary unsteadiness." Yet, if ever I saw alarm in any one's eyes, that feeling was then in Dr. Khayme's. I had said nothing; I now started to speak, but the Doctor placed a finger on my lips, saying, "Not yet; I'll do the talking for both of us." He rose and brought me water, and I drank. Then he sat by me again, and said, "The fight which one must make with his will against impulse is not easy, especially with some natures; and a single defeat makes the fight harder. To yield once is to become weaker, and to make it easy to yield," I understood. He could read me. He knew my weakness. How he knew I could not know; nor did I care. He was a profound soul; he knew the mind if ever yet mere man knew mind; he could read what was going on in the mind by the language of the features and the body. Especially did he know me. But possibly his knowledge was only general; he might infer, from apparent symptoms, that some mental trouble was now pressing hard upon me, and, without knowing the special nature of the trouble, might be prescribing the exercise of the will as a general remedy. Yet it mattered nothing to me, at the moment, I thought, how he knew. "You will not yield," said he. I closed my eyes, and thought of Lydia, and of my father, and of Willis, and of Jones, and of nothing connectedly. "Do you remember," he asked, "the first time you came with me to the little cottage in Charleston?" I nodded. "At that time you were passing a crisis. I would not tell you to will. Do you remember it?" Again I nodded assent. "To will at another's dictation is impossible. The will is free. If I should tell you to will any certain thing, it would do no good. All that I can do is to say that the will is free." His finger was yet on my lips. My mind had taken in all that he said, although my thought was giddy. He was clearly right. If I should surrender once, it would be hard to recover my former ground. Yet I doubted my power to will. The doubt brought terror. I wished that he would speak again. "The power of habit is not lost in a moment. It may be unobserved, or dormant even, but it is not destroyed. No man accustomed to keep himself in subjection can fail to distinguish temptation from surrender." How well he could read me!